The Memory Remains
by Erana
Summary: After several years away from the VCTF, Sam finds John on her doorstep with a serious problem. 3503
1. Prologue

Author's Notes: I've been taping the Profiler reruns on CourtTV since they've   
gone back to the first season and they put me in the mood to write for the   
show again. I found this on my hard-drive, and decided to work on it again,   
so I figured I'd post it here for whomever wants to read it.   
  
Some of the first fan-fics I ever wrote were for Profiler, so if you've read   
them, do me a favor and pretend they never existed -- 'cause they weren't   
very good. :)   
  
If there's anyone left still reading Profiler Fic, I'd love to know what you   
think.   
  
~Erana  
  
Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine. They belong to the Profiler folks, who's   
name I can't for the life of me remember. But I do know it's not mine.   
  
The Memory Remains  
by Erana Zeitler  
  
Prologue  
  
The pouring rain, combined with the pounding in John Grant's head, was making   
it nearly impossible to concentrate on the road before him, despite all his   
attempts to keep focused. The loud music playing on the stereo was slowly   
fading into the background, and no matter how high John turned the volume up,   
it wasn't having the slightest effect in keeping him awake.  
  
He'd never thought that he'd be so desperate for a cup of coffee, or tea, or   
anything that contained caffeine. But he couldn't risk going into one of the   
inviting gas stations. Just the tension of being out in the open, on the   
highway, was bad enough. Whatever head start Bailey had managed to give him   
had long since run out.  
  
Thankfully, he only had another twenty minutes or so before he reached his   
last hope.  
  
John jumped as the thunder cracked loudly in the distance, reminding him that   
he was trying to out run not just the local police, but the storm as well.   
The last thing he needed was to be stuck in traffic  
or, worse yet, have his car stall because of an inconveniently close bolt of   
lightening.  
  
Trying to take his mind off of the panic that wanted to grip him, John began   
to formulate a strategy for dealing with Samantha Waters. He couldn't help   
but wonder whether or not she would believe him. Bailey had, but then,   
Bailey knew the situation. Sam didn't know much of anything any more. Not   
since she'd left the FBI and gone off to parts that had, before yesterday,   
been unknown to him.  
  
Looking around, John saw that the road was all but deserted due to the coming   
storm. Another gas station loomed invitingly in the distance, promising the   
coffee he yearned for, and maybe even something to eat. His stomach reminded   
him loudly just how long ago it had been since he'd had actual food.  
  
John raised the volume of his radio up even higher, the sounds of Metallica   
making his rent-a-car nearly vibrate with sound. He hummed along with the   
song and tried to picture Samantha in his minds eye. She would be his oasis.   
Even if she wouldn't give him the help he needed, she'd at least give him   
some advil and food.  
  
He was pretty sure she would, anyway.  
  
Of course, he'd also been pretty sure she'd keep in touch, too. If Bailey   
hadn't given him her address, he'd have no where to go right now. That fact   
alone made him have to question what would have been the most obvious of   
conclusions in the old days.  
  
Luckily the old days were only two years ago. With enough reminders of the   
life she'd left behind, Sam just might be persuaded to help out.  
  
After all, she'd never been able to resist a lost cause.  
  
The thought was especially grim, and John winced at its truth. Sam had to   
help. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. She had to.  
  
The yellow lines of the road were beginning to merge together, and the black   
of the night sky was growing even darker than before.   
Recognizing the signs of sleep creeping up on him again, he raised the volume   
of the radio even higher. It didn't help. Sighing, John braved a quick   
glance at the clock.  
  
Still another fifteen minutes.  
  
John lowered the window. He knew that any doctor, resident, nurse, intern or   
medical student would tell him, if they had the opportunity, that it was a   
bad idea but desperate times called for desperate  
measures. After all, those very same people would be all too eager to inform   
him that driving with a gun shot wound, however minor, wasn't the brightest   
of ideas to begin with, let alone with a window open to  
the rain.  
  
But John really didn't have the luxury of obeying the rules right now.  
  
He groaned as it occurred to him that Sam would probably want him to explain   
his presence on her doorstep, as well as his injury, before she'd even   
consider letting him sleep. Out of nowhere he remembered a girl he'd known   
at one of his highschools, a total insomniac who'd always relied on No Doze   
to get through her days. He'd give anything to run into her right now.  
  
Twelve tormentous minutes later, he pulled his car into the driveway of 14   
Chamberlyn Avenue. John shut off the engine and rested his head against the   
steering wheel, trying to build up the energy he knew he'd need during the   
next half hour or so.  
  
Maybe, if he was really lucky, Sam wouldn't ask any questions at all.  
  
He opened the car door and got out painfully, his left leg throbbing in   
protest, reminding him pointedly of the obvious questions he'd be unable to   
avoid. John still didn't know whether to be grateful  
to Bailey, for having enough sense to know he was innocent, or furious with   
him for not knowing who he'd been firing at when the bullet had grazed his   
leg.  
  
Slowly he made his way to the door and leaned against it, fighting to remain   
awake. The promise of rest was so very close he could almost feel a soft   
pillow under his head, blankets covering his body. John wondered vaguely   
just exactly how long it had been since he'd gotten any sleep.  
  
With a sigh, he lifted his hand, knocked on the door, and waited.  
  
~End Prologue~ 


	2. Chapter One

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine. They belong to the Profiler folks, who's   
name I can't for the life of me remember. But I do know it's not mine.   
  
The Memory Remains  
by Erana Zeitler  
  
Chapter One  
  
Curled up on the sofa, Samantha Waters moved the novel away from her to stare   
at the cover with dismay. She enjoyed the work of Thomas Harris, but had to   
admit she was having a hard time believing that a man so obviously disturbed   
as his Hannibal Lecter had managed to remain free and relatively undetected   
for seven years. No matter how hard Sam tried, she could never ignore such   
questions whenever she attempted to read any type of crime or horror novel.   
Especially when that novel involved her former profession.  
  
Lightening sounded in the distance, and Sam, sending a silent hope that her   
question would be answered later on, returned her attention to the book.   
There was nothing she enjoyed more than reading a good novel on a stormy   
night. Something about it had always appealed to her. The only thing that   
could make the evening more enjoyable would be a cup of tea, and the pot was   
almost halfway done.  
  
Chloe was out of town at her grandmother's for the week, and Sam had found   
herself having to struggle for every moment of relaxation. When her daughter   
was there she could easily distract herself, but whenever Chloe was gone Sam   
was always forced to face a harsh truth -- she no longer had a life of her   
own. Sometimes that knowledge caused her to sink into temporary depressions,   
but they never lasted long. Not when Chloe was there, anyway.  
  
Tonight, however, she'd felt the familiar sadness and unbearable boredom, and   
had been grateful when the storm began. It allowed her to settle into a   
routine she rarely got the chance to enjoy peacefully. And it allowed her to   
lose herself in a world that, though fictional, was still similiar to the one   
she'd left behind.  
  
It was because of the storm, and her attention being focused on the book in   
her hands, that she didn't hear the soft knocking on her door until the third   
time.  
  
Sam frowned, putting the book down on the coffee table as she stood,   
uncertain of what she should do. It was possible someone had gotten stranded   
on the roads and needed to use her telephone. But there was also the   
possibility that the person standing outside her house was someone who wanted   
to hurt her. Much as she longed to pass it off to the atmosphere and her   
choice in reading material, her years as a profiler had taught her better   
than to simply trust the obvious.  
  
It was times like these when Sam wished she still had a weapon.  
  
Taking a deep breath, she headed down the hallway towards the front door,   
grateful that at least Chloe wasn't home. If the person outside was a   
threat, at least her daughter wouldn't be harmed. "Who is it?" she called out.  
  
Whether he or she responded was really irrelevant. Sam could hardly hear   
anything over the storm. Shaking her head, she ignored her more cautious   
side and threw open the door.  
  
"Hey."  
  
Sam knew her eyes were probably cartoonishly wide. "Oh my God... *John?*"  
  
John gave her a weak and exhausted smile. "The one and only. Well, the one   
and only on your door step anyway. Mind if I come in?"  
  
She snorted at the ludicrously casual question, but forced herself to step   
aside. "Of course," she said, trying to recover some sort of internal   
balance.  
  
Whatever progress she'd made in doing so was immediately lost when she saw   
him in the dim light of her front hall. The circles underneath his eyes were   
so dark they resembled bruises, and his eyes held the wild look that only   
came from severe exhaustion. Her eyes traveled over his body, finally   
resting on the hole in his pant leg and the hastily tied, blood-soaked towel   
that covered it. "Oh my God," she whispered, unable to keep herself from   
repeating the phrase.  
  
"I don't suppose we could save the 'who, what, where, when and why' stuff   
until after I've gotten some sleep, huh?" he asked, sounding both doubtful   
and guardedly hopeful at the same time.  
  
Sam had a feeling the hopefulness had little to do with his wanting some   
sleep.  
  
"What the hell is going on, John?"  
  
John gave her what she assumed was a mockingly hurt look. "What, no 'nice to   
see you'? No, 'how've you been?'"  
  
"People on social visits generally don't show up in the middle of the night   
with an injury and not even a phone call," Sam pointed out.  
  
"Well, if I'd had your number, I would've called," John assured her, then   
sighed and leaned back against the closed front door, running a hand through   
his rain-soaked hair. "Seriously, Sam, you wanna drill me I'm game, but can   
I at least have something with caffeine in it?"  
  
She stared at him a moment longer, then slowly nodded. "I just put on a pot   
of tea, it should be done in a few minutes," she answered slowly. "John, how   
did you even know where I -- "  
  
He cut her off quickly, "After the caffeine. And some advil if you have   
any." As she slowly headed towards the kitchen he called after her, "Oh, and   
I really wouldn't mind a chair."  
  
* * * * *   
  
Ten minutes later John sat across from her on the sofa, sipping from a mug   
while she wrapped up his leg, muttering something which was mostly   
unintelligible. From what John could decipher, she was complaining about the   
'doctor' before her name having nothing to do with medicine. Finally, she   
leaned back and surveyed her work. "It's the best I can do," she said,   
looking up at him from underneath her unruly bangs.  
  
"Hey, the best you can do is a hell of a lot better than the best I can do,"   
John replied, hoping the self-deprecating compliment would put her slightly   
at east. The way she'd been staring at him ever since he'd arrived, while   
not nearly as bad as he'd feared, was still a long way away from the   
reception he'd hoped for.  
  
Of course, considering the circumstances, he couldn't really blame her.  
  
"Now, are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked, leaning back   
against her side of the couch and giving him an expectant look.  
  
John sighed, and forced the dozen or so sarcastic replies from his mind. He   
was here for help, after all, and while he was far from an expert in the   
psychology field, he doubted antagonizing her was the best way to go about   
it. "Do you want the long version, or the short version?"  
  
"Short will do for now," she said.  
  
He tried not to look relieved at that. 'For now' was a good sign. It meant   
that she wasn't anticipating throwing him out in the immediate future. "The   
short version is I'm wanted for five murders, that I know about."  
  
Sam blinked, the only sign that she'd heard the words he'd expected to make   
the most impact. "What happened?"  
  
It was with supreme effort that he managed to repress another sigh. "There   
really isn't a short version to that one," he warned, but her only response   
was to wave a hand at him. He decided to try and condense it anyway.   
"Basically, we had a string of murders in Atlanta, obviously an inside job.   
I mean, the guy knew what we'd be looking for and made sure he didn't leave   
it. No clues, no evidence, nothing. The only reason we knew they were even   
connected was because they were all bureau guys. Naturally, the VCTF was   
called in to investigate, but so far as I know we still haven't come up with   
anything. Anyway, I got a call, about three days ago, from a guy who says he   
has information about my old man...," John trailed off and cleared his   
throat. "I've kinda been looking into that, on the side, for a while now, so   
I wasn't really surprised about it, or anything. It wasn't the first call   
I'd gotten. So I went out to where the meeting was supposedly going to take   
place, only, as you've probably guessed, it was a set-up instead. According   
to Bailey, someone tipped off the Feds that there was going to be another   
murder, and they were there waiting."  
  
"Why weren't you at the stake out?" Sam asked.  
  
John groaned. "I'd asked for the night off so I could go to the meeting," he   
explained. "When I figured out that something was off, I split. Or tried   
to, anyway. Bailey saw me, but he didn't know it was me and fired. We   
figured out the basics after that, and he gave me your address, then sent   
everyone else off on a wild goose chase in the opposite direction so I could   
get out of there. The end."  
  
Sam was silent for a long moment, considering. "Why come to me?" she asked   
finally.  
  
He raised an eyebrow at the question. "If anyone can figure out who's doing   
it, it's you," he answered, sounding annoyed at having to state what was, to   
him, obvious.  
  
"But you're not even sure that you're actually wanted for them, are you?"  
  
John shook his head. "Sorry, yeah, I am. I spoke to Bailey last night from   
a pay phone. There was a murder at the building I was at, and since I was   
there the non-evidence the guy's actually leaving has become the evidence I   
left." He made a face at the convoluted phrasing of his sentence.   
  
Sam got the point, however. "Well, there's no way I can figure out anything   
without some real facts. Do you have the case file?"  
  
"No. I was kind of in a hurry when I left Atlanta. I'm sure Bailey can get   
it to you."  
  
Sam frowned. "We're going to have to find some way to get it faxed here   
without anyone figuring out what's going on. Is George still working there?"   
He nodded. "I'm sure he can come up with something."  
  
John shook his head. "I don't know, Sam," he answered. "George's been   
having a few problems himself, lately. I mean, it's bad enough I had to get   
you involved, I don't want to drag anyone else into this."  
  
Sam rolled her eyes. "Come on, John. I seriously doubt anyone's not going   
to know right away that Bailey had some part in helping you escape, and   
George will want to help regardless. The best way to get everyone out of   
trouble is to find out who really committed the crimes, and why they want to   
set you up."  
  
"I take it this means you'll help?" he asked.  
  
Sam blinked, looking genuinely amazed at the question. "Of course," she   
replied immediately.  
  
John gave a soft sigh of relief. "That's good."  
  
She worried at her lower lip, a habit she still hadn't broken, and closed her   
eyes for a moment. There was no way she wouldn't help, but she also knew   
once John had gotten some sleep, he'd have a few questions of his own. And   
they were questions she had no idea how to answer.  
  
When Sam opened her eyes again, she was unsurprised to see that the last of   
John's adrenaline had worn off. He appeared as though, within the time-frame   
of five seconds, he'd fallen into a deep sleep. She smiled at the sight and   
reached for a quilt, covering him gently. Then she sat back down and her   
gaze turned towards the coffee table, and her forgotten book.  
  
It looked like the world she'd left behind had decided to come back for her.  
  
~End Chapter One~ 


	3. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine. They belong to the Profiler folks, who's   
name I can't for the life of me remember. But I do know it's not mine.   
  
The Memory Remains  
by Erana Zeitler  
  
Chapter Two  
  
John awoke to the smell of strawberry.  
  
He opened his eyes slowly, disoriented from his first good night's sleep in   
days. Unfortunately, John knew no amount of sleep was going to make him   
forget, even for a second, just what was going on.  
  
On second thought, maybe it was fortunate he couldn't forget.  
  
Because that smell of strawberries was most definitely coming from Sam's hair.  
  
She'd fallen asleep across the couch from him, which he'd known from the   
brief moment's during the evening that he'd woken from one sound or aonther.   
During the past few hours she'd shifted position enough so that strands of   
blonde hair were lying in front of his nose, and her head was resting   
comfortably on his stomach.  
  
If the circumstances were different, John knew there was no way in the world   
he'd be able to stop himself from acting on the impulses coursing through his   
veins. But the circumstances weren't different, and he was having a hard   
time allowing his imagination to go where it wanted to. It wasn't even the   
reason he'd shown up on her doorstep that was stopping him so much as the   
fact that last night was the first time he'd seen her, or heard her voice, in   
two years.  
  
Unlike Sam, John could resist a lost cause. He'd never been a big fan of   
pointless, wasteful longing.  
  
At least, that's what he was repeatedly telling himself as he stared down at   
her face.  
  
Of course, even the smallest bit of his heart that refused to listen to his   
head was silenced by memories of their last conversation with one another.   
It hadn't been much of a goodbye. In fact the only thing remarkable about it   
was it's complete lack of such. She'd been friendly, distant, every bit   
Samantha. And if she was in the least bit bothered by never seeing him   
again, it hadn't showed. At the time he hadn't minded, firmly believing that   
she'd keep in touch.  
  
Suddenly his hurt feelings were far stronger than any sexual attraction could   
ever hope to be.  
  
John shook her arm roughly. "Hey, Sam, mind moving?"  
  
She mumbled incoherently and buried herself against his chest for a moment,   
before realization came to her. A second later she was back on the opposite   
side of the couch, rubbing her eyes and stretching. "S'morning already?" she   
mumbled, her voice deep with exhaustion.  
  
"Yeah," John replied flatly. "If you tell me where the coffee's at I'll make   
a pot."  
  
Sam looked up at him, surprised by the tone of his voice. "It's in the   
cabinet over the stove," she told him cautiously.  
  
It occurred to John that he hardly had a right to be angry. After all, what   
should she care about how he felt? Her not keeping in touch proved plainly   
enough that he occupied little of her thoughts, if he even made it into any   
of them at all. "Be right back," he said after a moment's silence, forcing   
himself to make an attempt at sounding normal.  
  
Knowing he'd failed miserably, John rose carefully from the couch and limped   
towards the kitchen, wanting nothing more than to be away from her.  
  
Sam watched him go and knew that it was only a matter of time before her own   
interrogation began.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
  
As it turned out, Sam mused a half-hour later, she needn't have worried.  
  
Instead of the questions she'd been convinced would come, John had   
steadfastly avoided any thing resembling a personal conversation, aside from   
the facts necessary for her to come up with theories. When she asked how   
everyone was, his reply was 'fine'. When she asked how he was, besides the   
obvious, his reply was 'fine'. By the time she heard the seventh 'fine'   
coming from his mouth she wanted to scream.   
  
Finally, exasperated, she decided it was time to call George. Reaching for   
the phone she dialed the familiar number, and waited to be transferred.   
Tapping her finger on the desk impatiently, she looked over at John and   
wondered, not for the first time, whether he'd missed her. She'd been so   
sure he'd be filled with questions about why she hadn't stayed in touch and   
instead there was nothing. Not even the vaguest comment or implication.   
Nothing.  
  
It was bothering the hell out of her.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
Sam jumped slightly as the voice on the other end of the phone pulled her   
from further rumination. "George! How've you been?"  
  
There was a long silence before George answered, "Fine." The word   
immediately set Sam's teeth on edge, and she took a deep breath. "It's nice   
to hear from you."  
  
The carefully guarded tone told her instantly that they wouldn't be able to   
have a conversation free of subterfuge. "Can you talk?" she asked.  
  
"Not really, no," George replied, sounding amused for the benefit of whoever   
was listening. "I'm not so sure you should, either," he continued with a   
laugh.  
  
Sam frowned. She hadn't been expecting that, but he had a point. Chances   
were good the FBI wouldn't trust the VCTF to take care of the murders now   
that one of their own was the prime suspect. There was no reason to think   
they wouldn't have every phone they could get their hands on bugged or   
tapped. "I hear you," she told him, frowning. "But there is something I   
need."  
  
"I know just what you mean. Hey, what's your new number there?" George   
requested casually. She gave it to him. "Well, I'll give you a call just as   
soon as I can," he promised.  
  
"Thanks, George."  
  
"Any time," he assured her, and then there was nothing but a dial tone.   
  
Sam hung up the phone, and turned to look at John. "He'll get back to us,"   
she relayed.  
  
"I got that much," John confirmed.  
  
Sam rolled her eyes heavenward before opening up the refrigerator and   
surveying the contents. She glanced towards John. "Feel like eating?" she   
offered.  
  
John's eyes lit up. "Food?" he said incredulously. "Real, genuine, solid   
food?" In an instant he was on his feet and standing beside her to look   
inside the fridge. He reached inside for an apple, then turned to face her.   
"I'd worship you forever."  
  
Sam laughed and pushed him out of the way gently. "I'll take that as a yes,"   
she replied good naturedly.  
  
John moved to sit back down, taking a bite of the apple he'd stolen. "Hell,   
yes," he confirmed eagerly. "I'll even help, if you want. Although the last   
time I tried to cook the fire department ordered me to never try again." He   
frowned thoughtfully. "On the other hand, I'm a wanted murderer, I might as   
well break some kind of rule, right?"  
  
Sam stared at him for a long moment before answering, "That's okay, really,   
I'll do it myself."  
  
John gave her his best puppy-dog expression. "I'll tell you the same thing I   
told them, brand new stoves are not nearly as good as old ones. It wasn't my   
fault it blew up. And it certainly wasn't my fault poor old Mrs. Silverman   
didn't get out in time."  
  
Sam shook her head and laughed. "I'll admit, you had me going for a moment   
there," she confessed, pulling a carton of eggs out of the fridge.  
  
"Yeah, I'm such a kidder," John said sarcastically, and was inwardly   
satisfied when Sam continued to give him worried looks as she cooked.  
  
  
* * * * *   
  
  
It was three-thirty in the afternoon by the time the telephone rang.  
  
Sam hit record on the VCR so as not to miss a moment of her soaps, a fact   
John found exceedingly hard to believe even as he witnessed it first hand,   
and picked up the receiver. He sat forward on the couch cushion, wishing he   
could hear both ends of the conversation. "Hi... yeah... really?... I don't   
actually have one... well, I didn't know I'd need one... yeah, I know... I do   
have that... Sam492@aol.com... you think so?... are you *sure*?... yeah, I'll   
tell him. Thanks, George." She hung up, a nervous expression on her face.  
  
"What'd he say?" John asked the second the phone was out of her hand.  
  
Sam looked over at him, then without saying a word picked up the telephone   
again and dialed. "Hi. Look, something's come up, do you think you can   
watch Chloe for a few more days? I'll let you know when. Thanks. No, I   
gotta go, but tell her I said hi." She hung up the phone for a second time,   
then finally turned to look back at John. "George said the FBI's planning on   
coming out here, but he's not sure when."  
  
John frowned. "Great, more driving," he muttered, already moving to stand.  
  
Sam blinked, and held out a hand to stop him. "He's also going to e-mail the   
information to me, but I need to get it printed out and deleted before we go,   
otherwise they'll find it on the computer and they might be able to trace it.   
George said he could hide the trail, but just from it being hidden they'll   
know it was him."  
  
John turned to stare at her. "'We'?" he repeated incredulously, raising an   
eyebrow. "What we?"  
  
"You didn't really think I'd let you leave here without me, did you?" she   
asked, just as incredulously if not more so. "You came to me for help, and   
whether you like it or not you're going to get it."  
  
"Sam..."  
  
Sam shook her head firmly to stop whatever he was going to say next. "No.   
Look, their are people looking for you everywhere. But no one's looking for   
me, and no one's going to be *able* to look for me without some kind of   
evidence that I'm with you. It makes more sense for me to go with you than   
for you to go yourself."  
  
"No," John said resolutely. "No way in hell."  
  
Sam rose to her feet and stared him down. "What are you going to do on your   
own?" she asked. "You're hurt, and everyone's looking for you. There's no   
way you can prove you're innocent without me, and you know it."  
  
"Sam, you're not coming with me, and that's that." She looked ready to argue   
some more and he quickly continued, "Look, whoever's doing this is doing it   
to me. It's *my* problem. I'm not going to let you put yourself in danger   
because of me. Especially when you're not even an agent anymore!"  
  
Sam couldn't keep herself from releasing a small laugh. "How many times,   
John, did I tell you the exact same thing when we were investigating Jack?   
And how many times did you insist that it *was* your problem, and there was   
no way you were going to let me face it alone?"   
  
John, knowing she had a point, looked away. "It's not the same thing," he   
said.  
  
"No," Sam agreed. "No, it's not. But it's a chance for me to repay a debt,   
regardless of the circumstances. So let me."  
  
John opened his mouth to retort, but before he could begin he was interrupted   
by a loud knock at the door. The two exchanged looks of concern, both their   
minds jumping to the conclusion that the FBI was waiting on the doorstep.   
John took two steps towards the bathroom, and Sam shook her head, pointing   
towards the laundry room, instead. He headed towards it obediently, but   
before disappearing mouthed the words, 'Be careful'.  
  
Sam nodded, and yelled out, "I'll be right there!" Her eyes quickly skitted   
over the items in the living room, falling on the bloody towel John had   
abandoned the night before in favor of her bandages. She grabbed the towel   
and threw it into the laundry room with John, then headed towards the door,   
knowing it was too late to fix anything else now. She threw it open, to   
greet the two men in dark suits.  
  
The taller man gestured to the shorter. "This is Agent Michaels, and I'm   
Agent Simone. We'd like to ask you a few questions regarding a former   
partner of yours. Can we come in?"  
  
Sam stepped aside, and held her breath.  
  
~End Chapter Two~ 


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three  
  
The agents stepped over the threshold into Sam's front hallway. She left the door open and moved to stand in front of it, her arms crossed over her chest in a defensive posture she couldn't help taking. "What's this about?" she asked, determined to get them out of her house as soon as possible.  
  
The shorter one, Michaels, reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo. "We're looking for this man," he said, showing her the picture. She glanced down at it, unsurprised to see John staring back at her. "We understand you worked with him for several years as part of the Violent Crimes Task Force."  
  
"Yes," Sam confirmed, taking her eyes off the photo to look back at him. "I did."  
  
Agent Simone took over the conversation. "We're investigating the deaths of several fellow agents. We need to talk to him. I don't think I have to tell you what it means to the FBI when one of our own is murdered, especially when it's a deliberate killing not caused in the field. We believe Agent Grant is responsible, or, at the very least, has vital information on who is. We need to talk to him," the man repeated.  
  
Sam pursed her lips regretfully and shook her head. "I'm sorry, I haven't spoken to John in over two years." She hesitated, then continued, "But I did know him for several years before then, and I can tell you that he's not responsible."  
  
"Then he should come forward and prove that," Michaels replied, and Sam knew from the carefully measured tone of his voice he was well aware she was hiding something.  
  
Sam nodded. "If he contacts me, I'll tell him that," she promised.  
  
Agent Michaels reached into his pocket again, pulling out a business card. "Contact us, too," he said grimly, handing it to her. He moved towards the door, then turned to look back at her again. "By the way, who's staying with you?"  
  
Sam blinked, the only sign of startlement she allowed the agents to see. "Excuse me?"  
  
Agent Michaels gestured with his head towards her driveway, visible through the open door. "The rented car is yours, then?" he prompted.  
  
"Oh!" Sam exclaimed, smiling. "No, no, it's not, but no one's staying with me. I have a friend who injured his wrist, he asked me if I'd give him a ride up to visit his sister. I'm picking him up tomorrow." The lie came easily and flowed smoothly from her lips.  
  
Agent Simone nodded. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Waters. You'll be here, then, if we need anything else?"  
  
"You have my number," she replied, expertly evading the question.  
  
The two agents left, and Sam shut the door behind them. She breathed a sigh of relief, then looked through the peep-hole. The pair made their way to a black sedan parked on the side of the street, a good three inches away from her mail-box. Shaking her head at the ease in which law-enforcement broke the rules they were supposed to enforce, she watched them get into the vehicle. It was several minutes before the car finally drove away.  
  
She waited until they turned a corner before leaning back against the door. Judging from the amount of time they'd lingered in the car, she knew they had their doubts about her sincerity. Fortunately doubts alone weren't enough to authorize a stake-out, at least not right away. As long as John'd used a decent alias to rent his car, she figured they had another day or so before anyone began watching her house.  
  
Worrying at her lower lip, she pushed away from the door and headed back to the living room. It was strange, she mused, how easily she'd been able to lie to them. Even if she hadn't done a very good job at it, she'd never pictured herself as someone who'd ever lie to protect a fugitive, no matter who that person was. Feeling sympathetic towards all those imprisoned for aiding and abetting, she opened the laundry room door. John was sitting atop her washing machine, his injured leg stretched out to her dryer. "They're gone," she said, smirking at his position.  
  
John took in her strained expression and frowned. "How'd it go?"  
  
"As well as could be expected," she answered. "What name did you rent the car under?"  
  
John shrugged. "Nothing that could be traced, I did it over the phone. I spent half my childhood on the run, Sam," he reminded her pointedly. "If I know nothing else, I know how to hide." He stared at her a moment longer, then addressed the second half of her statement. "Which is exactly why I don't need you to come with me."  
  
Sam glared back at him. "We can go together, or I can follow you. Your choice." She waited a moment, and when he didn't reply added, "I need to pack. Could you go online and print out what George sent? You'd do a better job than I could of deleting it."  
  
John nodded, hopping down off of her laundry machines gingerly as she started to leave. "Hey, Sam?" he called out.  
  
She stopped and looked back.  
  
"What's your password?" Her expression changed dramatically in response to his words, and he couldn't keep from staring at her. He couldn't recall ever seeing her look so uncomfortable.  
  
"It's, uh... it's B-M-N-J-G," she replied quickly, with a rueful smile.  
  
"B-M-N...," he started to echo, then stopped, looking at her incredulously. "Bailey Malone and John Grant?" he asked, disbelievingly.  
  
Sam shrugged, her gaze fixed firmly on the carpet beneath her feet. "The two people I've missed the most," she explained softly.  
  
"Right," John replied, voice cold.  
  
Sam looked up, and saw that his eyes were as cold as his voice had been, hiding what she suddenly realized wasn't anger, but hurt. She felt her own eyes tear, and wished she had an answer to the question she knew was on both their minds. Unfortunately she respected him far too much to lie to him, and there was no way she could bring herself to tell him the truth. After an impossibly long moment of staring at one another, Sam forced herself to turn away. She headed towards her bedroom, afraid to glance back and see his response to her leaving rather than answering.  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
John stared at the computer screen blankly as the printer whirred to life, spitting out page after page of information related to the case. George had sent all the relevant files, including photographs, autopsy results, and Rachel's profile, which, John was pleased to note, bared no resemblance to him in any way. George had also included a brief note asking that they keep in touch if possible. John had to smile at his friend's careful wording, even if the e-mail was somehow traced, John knew there wasn't a chance in hell it'd stand up in court as evidence of conspiracy.  
  
As the printer continued to work, John found his thoughts wandering away from the investigation and onto the subject of Sam. He'd known that coming here would bring back all the feelings he'd had so many years ago. What he hadn't been prepared for, hadn't even really known was *there*, was his anger. If she'd really missed him, enough to include him in her *password* of all things, why hadn't she kept in touch with him? Why hadn't she ever picked up a phone, written a letter, hell, even sent an e-mail? Anything at all to let him know that she was alright. Instead the only proof he had that she'd ever cared at all was his initials in a five letter password.  
  
There had been so many times since Sam'd left that he could have used her friendship and support. Less than a year ago he'd watched his girlfriend die on the floor of a convenience store, and Rachel had come to see him at his apartment, trying to lend her support. The entire time she'd been there, offering comfort, he'd been wishing she was Sam, instead. Sam would've known what to do, what to say, to make it better. It'd been her advice and support he'd wanted then, and so many times before and after over the past two years. But she hadn't been there.  
  
Of course, she'd been only a phone call away for Bailey.  
  
It hurt.  
  
It hurt more than he thought was possible, more than he was justified in feeling. And he knew he was doing a really bad job of trying to hide it from her.  
  
"John?" John turned his head, startled, and saw Sam staring at him, suitcase in hand. "Where were you?" she asked.  
  
John shook his head, pushing all thoughts of the past from his mind. "Zoned out for a second." He gestured to the printer, which, he realized, was finished. "There's everything you wanted on the investigation. I need to clear the info off the computer, then we can get going."  
  
Sam nodded. "Okay. I need a few minutes, anyway," she assured him, bending down in front of her television. She ejected the tape and put in a new one, then reached for the remote.  
  
John watched her out of the corner of his eye as she began to program the VCR to tape her soap. "I never pictured you as much of a TV person," he commented.  
  
Sam shrugged. "The writing used to be a lot better," she admitted. "I stopped watching regularly a while ago, but then they brought on this new character, Roy DeLuca?" She turned the statement into a question and looked at him for a moment, then, seeing no sign of recognition on his face, continued, "He's really fascinating."  
  
John rolled his eyes. "Wow, do you need a life," he muttered, turning his attention back to the computer.  
  
Sam blinked, and looked up at him. John hadn't said anything so obviously designed to hurt her since the first few months they'd known one another, and the remark caught her off guard. Of course, she didn't really have the right to expect him to treat her as a friend anymore. Sighing, she turned on the timer, knowing she wouldn't be so bothered if he wasn't right. "You almost ready?"  
  
"Whenever you are." He stood up, leaning against the table for support, and gathered up the pages from the printer, shoving them into a folder from the desk. "What car are we taking?"  
  
"Mine," Sam said firmly. "We can stop and get another one later." She suddenly frowned and turned to face him, standing up as well. "That's leaving a trail, isn't it? Renting a car?"  
  
John nodded. "Sure is, but I can't see how we got much choice." He shrugged. "The only other option I can think of is to steal one, and we sure as hell can't do that. Even if I wasn't hoping to go back to the FBI when this thing's over with, we'd have a lot more risk of being pulled over in a hot car."  
  
Sam pursed her lips together thoughtfully. "I have a friend who hurt her wrist," she said, remembering her inspiration for the story she'd told the agents earlier. "She can't drive for at least another month, she'd probably let me borrow it. Then we wouldn't have to rent a car."  
  
"Sounds perfect," John agreed.  
  
Sam reached for the phone and, after a few minutes of conversation, hung up and smiled at him. "It's all set. We'll have to park mine somewhere it won't be noticed, though."  
  
"I passed a place not too far from here that might work," John said, shifting position with a wince. He couldn't stand still on his leg for more than a few minutes without it throbbing.  
  
"Let's get going," Sam prompted, noticing his expression. She picked up her suitcase with some effort. "Don't even think about it," she said firmly, catching the look of solicitation that crossed John's face.  
  
"Wasn't thinking a thing," he assured her, and waved the folder, as if carrying it took all of his effort.  
  
Sam smiled, and they headed out of the living room together.  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
John sorted through the pile of papers spread out over his lap, relieved that they'd managed to ditch Sam's car without incident. "You want photographs before or after the autopsy reports?"  
  
Sam rolled the window down slightly, making sure the papers wouldn't get caught up in the wind, and shrugged. "Doesn't matter," she replied, taking a deep breath. The air was crisp and fresh, containing a quality that could only be found after a thunderstorm.  
  
Sighing, John shoved the papers back into the folder. Sam didn't seem to care one way or another, why should he? He looked out the window, watching as they passed the gas station he'd found so tempting last night. "Where we going, anyway?"  
  
Sam glanced over at him, then looked away, hesitating. She was well aware he wasn't going to like her answer. But there didn't seem to be any other option, and it wasn't like she could just not tell him. He'd figure it out sooner or later. Taking in another deep breath, she forced herself to reply. "We're going to Atlanta."  
  
~End Chapter Three~  
  
End Note: I couldn't resist the Roy DeLuca mention, sorry. :) Please let me know what you   
thought, good and bad, I'd really appreciate it. And thanks to everyone who replied to the  
previous parts. It helped me finish this one sooner. 


	5. Chapter Four

Author's Notes: Thanks for the replies on the last part... I told you they'd make me write  
faster. :) Glad everyone's liking it so far. Please let me know what you thought of  
this part. I should have another one done within a week, probably sooner if I keep getting  
spoiled in the feedback realm. Oh, and special thanks to Cindy and CharmingTia, for the  
detailed replies, I really appreciate it. :)  
  
Chapter Four  
  
John had been staring at her for over five minutes, and Sam, beginning to get a bit nervous, broke the silence. "I have to see the crime scenes, John."  
  
"Are you nuts?" he demanded, shaking his head. "I may not be the profiler here, but even *I* know serial killers like to return to the scene of the crime to 'relive the magic'."  
  
Sam made a face. "Could you please not quote Disney commercials when talking about murders?" she asked, irritated.  
  
"I'll stop quoting Disney if you stop being insane!" John exclaimed, exasperated. "You can't seriously think we can just waltz into one of these crime scenes and not be arrested on the spot. I might as well turn myself in and sign a confession!"  
  
Sam sighed heavily. "Look, we know the killer's working out of Atlanta. How do you expect to clear your name from New York? You know he'll strike again, and we're not going to know anything about it if we're not *there*."  
  
"You ever heard of the Internet? You don't need to be in Atlanta to know anything. There's websites dedicated to nothing but serial killers, updated on the hour."  
  
"That's not the point, John," Sam replied, shaking her head firmly. "You can't solve a crime from the other side of the country. Besides, the team's in Atlanta."  
  
"Hey, I'm all for you having a big reunion with the VCTF, but do you think you could find a more convenient time? In case you haven't noticed, I'm a big distracted."  
  
"Could you please stop arguing with me about this?" Sam asked, pressing down a bit harder on the gas to make her point. "I can't profile a killer based on reports and photographs alone. I tried that once before, remember?"  
  
John slumped back in his seat, unable to think of a decent retort to that. "Fine. But you better at least write me when I'm sitting on death row."  
  
Sam flinched, both at the pointed reference to her lack of communication and the thought of John actually going to prison for this. "I won't let that happen," she said firmly, knowing he wouldn't appreciate the sentiment. He didn't reply, returning his attention to the window. With another sigh, Sam turned on the radio and continued down the road.  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
It was a constant source of amazement to Sam how hotel rooms all managed to look the same, no matter where in the country one was. The same light yellow walls, the same busy purple bedspreads, and the same pictures hanging in the corner. The beds were close together, seperated only by the width of the nightstand between them. John was lying on the one nearest the television, flipping through the channels with little interest, while Sam began to organize the files George had sent.  
  
"Want some room service?" John offered, reaching for the phone.  
  
"A salad would be nice," she replied, not looking up from the pages spread out on the bed. She heard him dial, and then his voice and the drone of the television faded into the background as she became engrossed in the case files. Before she knew it there was a knock on the door, and John was handing her money. "Why can't you get it?" she asked irritably, then, realizing he was still in the pants he'd been wearing when he was shot, stood up and went to the door. After paying the man she took the tray and put it down on the table in the corner of the room, all of five steps away John's bed. Grabbing her salad and the coke John had ordered for her, she went back over to her own side of the room, sitting back down cross-legged in front of the papers.  
  
"How's it going?" John asked her, uncovering his own dinner and choosing to sit at the table by himself.  
  
Sam sighed, annoyed at the interruption. "It's going," she said simply, then, realizing she was being rude, added, "The profile's off somehow, but I can't put my finger on why." She shook her head. "I shouldn't have read it until I had my own done. I'm out of practice."  
  
John shrugged. "It came back to you before," he noted, referring to the three years after her husband's death.  
  
"That was different," she replied, although she didn't really know the answer to that 'why' either.  
  
"Well, if you need a sounding board, I got nothing better to do," John offered with a smirk, beginning to eat his dinner.  
  
Sam wrinkled her nose as she watched him bite into what had to be the most greasiest piece of mystery meat she'd ever seen. "Thanks," she said, looking down at Rachel's profile with a frown. "You know, everything in here is right, technically. I don't understand why it feels so off to me."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I mean... ugh. I don't know what I mean." Frustrated, she reached for her salad and pushed the stack of papers out of her way. "Were the victims found chronologically?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Sam buried her head in her hands. "How do you know the killer's an FBI agent?" she asked.  
  
"It's all in the files," John replied, waving a hand at her bed.  
  
"I want your perspective."  
  
John looked somewhat surprised, but answered readily. "Well, for starters, all the victims are agents. Victim number four was the real red flag, though. He'd been working undercover for eight years. No way some regular nutball could've known about that."  
  
"That doesn't really prove anything."  
  
"No, that was just when we started having suspicions. Seven was what really made us start focusing on the bureau itself. The victim had a partner, he'd told her he got a call from an Agent Williams, and went to go meet with him. 'Course he never came back from that meeting. The name was fake, but the phone records proved the call came from headquarters."  
  
Sam pursed her lips. "A janitor could have somehow gained access to undercover information," she mused aloud.  
  
"Sure," John agreed, "but Rachel didn't think so. She figured it was someone who'd at least made it to agent status. You think she's wrong about that?"  
  
"I don't know," Sam sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Maybe. Maybe not." She took a bite from her salad, reaching for the photographs. "I think she's wrong about it just being sexual, though. He gets off on the victims suffering, that's obvious from the sodomizing, but it's not *just* about that. It's also about the control. If he *is* an agent, my guess is he's been past over for promotion several times, and he probably has an unremarkable service record. This isn't a guy who's ever been singled out for doing something well. He's been mediocre all his life. Killing is his way of finally being better than his peers." She bit down on her lower lip thoughtfully. "Did you run a check to see what agents took berevement leave before the murders started?"  
  
John nodded. "Yeah, nothing panned out, though."  
  
Sam closed her eyes, trying to picture the crime in her minds eye. Nothing came to her. "I really need to see the scenes," she said softly.  
  
"Well, you'll get your chances in a few days," John answered, taking a sip of his own soda before pushing away his plate. "I'm gonna take a shower."  
  
"When's check out?" Sam asked.  
  
"Twelve. Why?"  
  
"We're close to a department store, and, no offense, John, but I'd rather not smell those clothes another day if I can help it."  
  
John smirked as he stood up, walking towards the bathroom door. "Knock yourself out. Just try not to wake me up when you leave. I need at least eight hours or I tend to get irritable."  
  
"As opposed to your usual sunny disposition?" Sam replied, her voice dry.  
  
"Exactly," John said grimly.  
  
His lip twitched ever so slightly, and Sam gave into the giggles she'd been trying to repress. "I'll be quiet," she promised through her laughter.  
  
John glared at her mockingly, then disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The smile lingered on Sam's lips as she returned her attention to the papers in front of her, trying to make some sense out of the senseless tragedies of others.  
  
  
* * * * *   
  
  
The sound of Sam's laughter echoed in John's mind as he turned on the hot water, closing the curtain to let it heat as he began to remove his clothing. It'd been far too long since he'd heard her laugh like that, and it brought back memories that seemed to be eternally soured by the past two years. But for a second, out there in that hotel room, talking about the case and then joking with one another, it had seemed as though those years hadn't happened. It had seemed like just another case, and just another day.  
  
And Sam still looked beautiful when she laughed.  
  
"What the hell are you thinkin', Grant?" he asked his reflection. He'd let Sam into his heart once already, and she'd taken that little piece of him and vanished years ago. Once this mess was settled, assuming it ever *was* settled, she'd go back to her life, such as it was, and he'd go back to chasing the bad guys. This was no time to be getting soft where Sam was concerned. He couldn't open himself up to her a second time. If he did, it wouldn't matter what happened with the investigation, he'd already be a dead man.  
  
It had taken a long time to forget her, and in a little over twenty-four hours, she'd already made him want to forgive her, without her ever offering an explanation, or even an apology.  
  
Shaking his head to clear it, he tested the temperature of the water and stepped in, reminding himself firmly of the two years between then and now. She'd proven beyond a doubt that she didn't care. He could've been dead, and she wouldn't have had the slightest idea.  
  
Unless she'd asked Bailey about him.  
  
John banged his head against the bathroom tile, thinking it was actually a pretty good analogy to his feelings for Sam. It was just as pointless.  
  
And just as painful.  
  
~End Chapter Four~ 


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five  
  
John sat up in bed, startled by the sound of someone crying out for help. He reached for the light switch with one hand while searching the nightstand blindly for his gun with the other. Squinting as he tried to adjust to the lamp's bright glow, he looked over to the bed next to his. Sam was tossing beneath the covers, alternatively whimpering and calling out in fear.  
  
Taking a deep breath, John tried to squash the surge of adrenaline running through his system. "Sam!" She didn't hear him, still trapped in her nightmare. Sighing, he stepped out of his bed, then sat down on the edge of hers. He reached out and touched her forehead, brushing sweat-soaked blonde hair away from her brow. "Sam?" he said, softly. "Sam, it's John. Wake up." Still no reply, and she whimpered again, the terror-filled sound causing his heart to constrict with pain on her behalf. "Sam, come on. Wake up." He shook her shoulder gently.  
  
Sam felt him touch her, and the sound of his voice pulled her out of her dream and into reality. "John?" she whispered, looking up at him with an unfocused gaze.   
  
John gave her a small smile, his eyes dark with concern. "Hey, you okay? You were having a nightmare."  
  
"Yeah," she replied on a yawn, slowly sitting up and blinking with disorientation. She tried to focus her vision as she pushed the covers down off her chest and onto her lap. "I'm fine."  
  
John didn't look convinced, his hand still resting firmly on her shoulder. "You sure? You wanna... I don't know, talk about it, or something?"  
  
Sam had to smile at that, the remnants of her dream fading from memory. "Shouldn't that be my line?"   
  
"I'm not the one thrashing around in bed," John pointed out.  
  
Sam looked to her side, needing to break his intense gaze, at least momentarily. "I'm fine," she repeated, turning her eyes back to his. "Thanks for waking me."  
  
John shrugged. "Sure." He leaned back, removing his hand from her shoulder. "What were you dreaming about?"  
  
Sam glanced down at the comforter, the concern she could see so clearly in his eyes making her strangely uncomfortable. "Jack," she admitted softly. She looked back at him, and felt herself soften at the gentleness of his expression. It had been a very long time since he'd looked at her like that.  
  
"Do you dream about him a lot?" John asked, shifting position so that his injured leg was no longer tucked beneath his weight.  
  
"Less than I used to," Sam evaded, her cheeks beginning to flush. John's movement had brought him closer to her, and she could feel the heat of his body through the comforter, the soft pressure of his leg against her hip. For one insane moment she contemplated moving a little closer, wanting, for reasons she couldn't understand, to be closer to that tempting warmth.   
  
"So is that once every other night as opposed to nightly?" John prompted, trying to read the expression on her face.  
  
Sam swallowed, pursing her lips together as she wondered what the hell was wrong with her. She knew she'd be fine, if he would just stop *looking* at her like that. Like... like *Tom*. The realization came suddenly, and she felt as if she'd just been kicked in the stomach. That was it. That *look* on John's face... it was the same one, the same *exact* one, Tom used to get when he was worried about her. Tears filled her eyes, and she knew if John didn't stop looking at her like that, *right now*, she was going to lose it. "I... I don't want to talk about it, John, okay? Please?" she begged, her voice trembling with emotion.  
  
John stared at her silently for a long moment, the catch in her voice preventing him from leaving her alone like she'd asked. He reached out, pulling her forward and wrapping his arms around her, sensing that she was about to lose control. "It's okay, Sam. It's okay," he said softly, stroking her hair.  
  
Sam remained stiff against him until she heard him speak. She had no idea what he was saying, but the tone of his voice matched that damned look he'd had in his eyes, and her tenuous grasp on equanimity was shattered. She burrowed against his chest, and began to cry in earnest, memories of the two men she'd loved and lost because of Jack running through her mind. As she tried and failed to catch her breath and regain control, she searched her memory, wondering when was the last time she'd cried on someone's shoulder. The realization caused fresh tears to form, as it occurred to her that no one had held and comforted her like this since she'd left Atlanta. She pulled away from him after another moment, wiping at her eyes and giving a small, forced laugh. "Bet your surprised," she said, her voice choked with tears and even more memories.  
  
"'Bout what?" John asked, confused.  
  
Sam smiled softly, steeling herself to look up at him and face that expression once again. "That I actually do have a heart," she whispered, her voice sounding haunted with sorrow even to her own ears.  
  
John blinked, hard, as her words called up the memory he knew was now on both their minds. "Look, Sam," he began quietly, "I know I've been a jerk..."  
  
Sam shook her head, quickly interrupting him, "Don't. You don't owe me an apology, John. It's the other way around."  
  
"This isn't the time, Sam," John said firmly, reaching out with his hand to wipe away the remaining tears from her cheek.   
  
"Then when is?"  
  
It took all of John's willpower to say, "Not now. Not ever, as far as I'm concerned. You don't owe me an explanation."  
  
Sam knew that was a lie. She did owe him an explanation, and she was ready, now, to give him the truth. She didn't know if that would be the case in the morning. Unfortunately, she was also exhausted and emotionally drained from crying. She lacked the energy to argue with him. "We have to talk about this," she tried anyway.  
  
John desperately wanted to hear what she had to say, but knew if they talked about it now it wouldn't be fair to either one of them. She was upset, and there was no way John could be even remotely honest about his feelings when she was looking at him with tears still lingering in her eyes. "We got at least another two hotel stays before we hit Atlanta," he reminded her, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear without thinking.  
  
Sam sighed and gave in. "What time is it?" she asked, changing the subject.  
  
He looked over at the clock on the nightstand. "Two thirty."  
  
"I guess we should go back to bed, then," she said softly.  
  
"Guess so," John agreed, and forced himself to stand up, immediately missing the feel of her body brushing against his. He climbed back into his own bed, and shut off the light, turning away from her to face the window. "G'night, Sam. Sweet dreams."  
  
"Good night, John," Sam replied. She stared off into the darkness of the room, wondering just how badly she'd hurt him by keeping her silence these past two years.   
  
Sam pursed her lips together so no sound would escape as the tears once again began to fall, silently, down her cheeks.  
  
~End Chapter Five~  
  
End Note: Sorry this is a little shorter than the others. Please, please, please let me know what you thought. :) 


	7. Chapter Six

Author's Note: Yes, I know. About damn time. :) -- Due to the computer problems I mentioned earlier, I've had to re-write this chapter three different times. I hate re-writing. It's never as good as the original, and, in my opinion, each re-write just made this chapter less satisfying for me personally as far as writing goes. Am I happy with it now? Not even close. But I finally decided it was time to just give up, post it, and be able to move on to different chapters which will almost certainly go more smoothly. Also, my long absence from Profiler-writing has left me sadly beta-reader-less, so if you're interested please give me an e-mail at erana4568@aol.com. Thanks. Hope this chapter isn't as disappointing to you as it's been to me. :)  
  
~~~~~~~  
Chapter Six  
  
If asked what he hated most in the world, Bailey Malone would have immediately answered, 'being second-guessed'. Now, staring up at Agent Blevins, section chief of the VCTF, he was forced to consider changing that to being accused of something that he had actually done. It left so little room for righteous indignation.  
  
"For the last time, sir, I have no idea how Grant managed to escape. I'd imagine his being a highly trained agent might have something to do with it."  
  
Blevins, who'd been pacing around Bailey's office for what felt like the last week, instead of just the last two hours, didn't look amused. "You get a tip telling you that a murder of a *federal agent* is going to occur, you have your people surround the building, and not only do you fail to catch the murderer, you can't even stop the murder! I'd like to know how that's possible, Malone, I really would."  
  
Bailey sighed heavily. "Is it too much to hope that what I *just said* will actually only be the second to last time I have to say it?"  
  
"Don't get smart with me," Blevins snapped irritably. "Do you have any idea the kind of publicity nightmare this is going to be when it gets out? I hope for the sake of your own job and reputation you manage to come up with a slightly better explanation than 'I have no idea' really damn fast!" With that, the senior agent stormed out of the office, slamming the door loudly behind him. Bailey wondered idly how much longer his door would stand up to that kind of treatment.  
  
Before Bailey managed to even push his desk back, the door opened once again and George's head appeared inside his room. "We got a problem."  
  
"What?" Bailey snapped, deciding that the thing he hated most in the world was actually the word 'problem'.  
  
George walked further into the room and laid a report down on Bailey's desk. "If they didn't know Sam and John were together before, they sure do now. Some kids found Sam's car parked in the woods and called the local cops."  
  
"Damn it!" Bailey exclaimed, rising from his chair. "Why the hell couldn't they've just stolen her car like normal kids?" Giving a heavy sigh, Bailey picked up the report and scanned it, then looked outside his office windows cautiously before asking, "Have you heard anything from them since last time?"  
  
George shook his head grimly. "Not a word."  
  
Bailey sat back down and closed his eyes. "When you do, George, I wanna know about it. You got that?"  
  
"Loud and clear," George confirmed, and backed out of the office as quickly as he'd entered it.  
* * * * *  
  
  
John leaned back against the front of the car, resisting the urge to take a twelfth look at his watch as he watched Sam. She'd been on the payphone with her daughter for the last twelve minutes, and each one had dragged by. Apparently she didn't quite grasp that being out in the open, even if only at a road stop, might just be a bad idea. After all, what mattered more? Being arrested, or hearing all about the latest in Chloe's vast array of watercolor impressions?  
  
For Sam, the answer was obviously watercolor impressions.   
  
He cleared his throat loudly, but Sam showed no signs of hearing him, instead asking Chloe if she felt blue was really the right color for clouds, as well as sky. If today's weather was anything to go by, John would've gone with gray.  
  
A light drizzle had started less than three minutes into Sam's riveting conversation, and had been steadily increasing ever since. Now it hit its stride, pouring from the sky forcefully. John pushed patience aside and walked as quickly as his still-healing leg would allow over to the payphone. He tapped Sam on the shoulder and gestured to the car before turning back around, her apologetic tone the only part of her finally ending conversation he was able to make out over the sound of the rain.  
  
Moments later she joined him in the car, pushing rain-soaked hair out of her eyes and shivering. "Sorry to keep you waiting," she said, not sounding in the least bit apologetic as she started the car.  
  
John ignored her irritation and instead took in their surroundings once again, making certain that the occupants of the only other nearby car hadn't paid them any attention. It was hard to see through the rain, but it didn't seem as though the two people had even glanced over at them; both appeared to be sleeping. "We shouldn't spend too long in one place," he finally said, reaching over to turn up the heat.  
  
Sam slapped his hand away from the knob. "I like it where it is," she snapped, as she pulled away from the payphones and towards the exit. "And if I could have used the phone at the hotel, I would have," she added, and turned on the windshield wipers.  
* * * * *  
  
  
John had never known silence could be deafening until another twenty minutes, and a brief pit stop to exchange driving responsibilities, had passed.   
  
Last night, for the briefest of moments, he'd felt a change between he and Sam, a realization that things weren't what they'd been back in the VCTF, and maybe that was a good thing. They'd been close then, certainly friends, but he'd never sat next to her on a bed, soothing her from a nightmare. She'd never spoken her own secrets to him, never let him forget that she was strong and not in need of protection. At least, not his protection. But last night, she'd been vulnerable, and she hadn't tried to hide or shield it, hadn't turned away from him or pushed away his concerns. Sam had confided in him. She'd trusted him.  
  
But he hadn't been able to reciprocate.  
  
When she'd offered to tell him the truth, whatever reason kept her from contacting him these past two years, he'd only wanted to silence her. Because if she told him, then he'd have to respond. He'd have to let her know, beyond insinuation, how he'd felt, how she'd hurt him. And with the reason left unspoken, he could fool himself into believing it was a good one. That somehow, if he knew, he would not only understand but forgive.  
  
John couldn't give that up.  
  
Sam suddenly sat up in her seat, blue eyes widening in fright. "John," she said, sharply.  
  
John glanced away from the road to look at her. "What?" he asked, voice clipped, wanting to keep the distance between them.  
  
She shook her head fiercely, and he knew instantly whatever was causing her fear, it had nothing to do with them personally. "The rearview mirror," she said, deliberately leaning back in her seat and forcing a calm expression to overtake the worry.  
  
John returned his gaze to the road, and as casually as possible glanced up.  
  
Right into the eyes of Detective Grayson.  
  
Memory flooded back, filling his minds eye, and it was all he could do to keep control of the car. The detective had called in the FBI because of a pair of identical murders in his city four years ago. He, Sam and Bailey had flown in, and had spent a solid month trying to track down the killers. Sleepless nights of the four of them at the station, sharing pizzas and staring at crime scene photos rose in his mind. Alex Grayson showing them the scenes personally, taking them out for dinners on him, the football game they'd taken in on their last night in town before Bailey had finally thrown in the towel and admitted they were at an impasse.  
  
The phone call a month later, inviting them back to celebrate the capture of the murderer. An invitation the three FBI agents had gladly accepted.  
  
John took a deep breath, tearing his eyes away from the rearview mirror. "Shit."  
  
Sam's deep breath seemed louder to him than the roar of the dozen engines surrounding them, and he fought against the urge to shush her. "I don't think he's recognized us," she whispered, apparently feeling the same sense of paranoia that somehow the man in the car behind them would hear.  
  
"Yet," John replied shortly. The media might not know John's face yet, but he had no doubt his picture had been circulated through every precinct between here and Atlanta. And while he and Alex had gotten along extremely well four years ago, he knew they were nowhere near close enough for the younger man to even hesitate in arresting him.  
  
"We should get off this road," Sam said, stating the obvious and looking out the window for the exit signs.  
  
John shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Too risky. As long as we're ahead of him, he can't see our faces. The second we pull off, though..."  
  
"What about when he exits?" Sam asked reasonably. "If we leave, there's just a chance he might look over, but when *he* leaves, he's going to see us."  
  
John eyed the traffic, fighting down panic as he searched desperately for an opening that would allow him to put some distance between the two cars. Spotting a break in the HOV lane, he signaled and pulled in, picking up speed to merge.  
  
Sam buried her face in her hands. "John! What did you just do?"  
  
The second the words left her mouth, the police siren sounded over the traffic.  
  
~End Chapter Six~  
  
End Note: Sorry for the cliffhanger ending, but from now on I plan to update 'Memory Remains' every Sunday, so if I manage to actually be *scheduled* for once, you should find another chapter up next week.   
  
Beta-volunteers'd make me very happy, just to remind you. :) 


	8. Chapter Seven

Author's Note: I'd say, 'yes, I know it's about time', but I'm sure anyone following this story will be glad to say it for me. :) Major thanks to everyone who's  
  
left such wonderful feedback. Hope you like this part! g  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
It took only a second for John to realize his mistake -- he'd pulled into the HOV lane before the road signs indicated a turn was allowed. Was it enough to make a *detective* pull him over? No, not unless it was the end of the month and the department quota was low. But it was enough to make a detective look twice. And since it was only the beginning of the month, John would lay odds on having been made by Grayson.  
  
  
  
Sam was shaking her head in the passenger seat, giving him a look that on anyone else would've been panic. "Should we try and run?" she asked.  
  
  
  
"Do you see me pulling over?" John snapped, even as he mentally evaluated the chances of actually escaping. He thought back to his own days as a cop, and the many police chases he'd been involved in. He'd never had a suspect actually *escape*, but he had let a few go who he'd thought might endanger innocent drivers. Of course, none of those people had been the prime suspect of a serial killer investigation, either.   
  
  
  
Suddenly the lone siren sound vanished, and, startled, John took his first rearview mirror glance since spotting Grayson. The man was continuing down the road as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, as if he'd only turned it on mistakenly.  
  
  
  
"Can we get off this road *now*?" Sam asked, voice both clipped and skeptical at the same time.   
  
  
  
John nodded. "First exit."  
  
  
  
Sam pursed her lips together. "That was close," she said softly, then glanced back in the passenger side mirror, searching for Grayson's car. "Way too close."   
  
  
  
"No kidding," John muttered, his bad mood returning now that the most recent immediate danger had passed. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that it was his fault they'd almost gotten caught. "Sorry," he forced himself to add.  
  
  
  
"It doesn't matter," Sam sighed, slumping back into her seat and cracking the window open. Small raindrops fell onto her arm and into her air as she inhaled the fresh air. "It didn't happen."  
  
  
  
"Right," John said bitterly, being extra careful about how he signaled to return to the main highway. "Food?" he offered.  
  
  
  
Sam shrugged and closed her eyes, turning her face towards the window and the pouring rain. "Fine."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Sam nibbled half-heartedly on her sandwich as she paced the latest in a series of cramped inexpensive hotel rooms. John was sitting at the always provided small writing table, trying to map out the quickest and least noticeable route to Atlanta, and she leaned over his shoulder momentarily before resuming her pacing.   
  
  
  
It had been a long time since she'd been on the road; she'd forgotten some of the more unpleasant side-effects. Particularly the frustrated restlessness that only came from doing nothing in unfamiliar territory. Doing nothing at home for the past few years hadn't bothered her in the least.  
  
  
  
It didn't help matters that she and John were definitely wearing on one another's nerves.  
  
  
  
She forced herself to stop pacing and perched on the edge of the bed. A half-hearted reach for the case-file was abandoned when the hotel phone rang. An exchange of looks with John and a shrug later, she picked up the receiver. "Hello?"  
  
  
  
"Hey. I got your message," the voice on the other end said. Sam felt a smile come over her and some of the tension leave her body at the sound of George's voice. "Very subtle. Couldn't have done it better myself."  
  
  
  
Sam blushed, both embarrassed and pleased at the compliment. She'd called George's cell phone from the hotel lobby, and John had tormented her for ten minutes after she'd hung up about her code. "I knew you'd get it," she said, glaring at John, who shrugged back at her again. "I just wanted to make sure there hadn't been any developments."  
  
  
  
"Nothing yet, at least where the case is concerned," George answered. "I'm glad you called, though. There's something you need to know."  
  
  
  
Sam tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and leaned back against the bed, sensing from his tone that this wasn't going to be good news. "What is it?"  
  
  
  
"Some kids found your car," he said simply. "Bailey's been trying to keep a tight lid on this since John took off, but now with you involved, too… the story's getting too good. Somebody's going to break it. No matter how many precautions we've taken."  
  
  
  
Sam frowned into the telephone. "Why, though? If this gets out, the FBI's going to look bad. *Really* bad."  
  
  
  
"It's not about us," George replied. "We had to notify police departments around the country when John left. Now Blevins is going to have to notify them *again* about your involvement. Someone's going to pick up on it."  
  
  
  
Sam ran her free hand through her hair and looked over at John, who'd abandoned his route planning and was paying close attention to her end of the conversation. "Great," she muttered sarcastically.  
  
  
  
"Just wanted to give you the heads up," George said. "Might be a good time to start looking into alternative hair colors."  
  
  
  
Sam grimaced. "I'd make a really bad brunette."  
  
  
  
George snorted on the other end. "Keep in touch. I'll see if there's anything I can do."  
  
  
  
"Thanks, George." Sam hung up and looked over at John. "They found my car."  
  
  
  
John leaned back in his chair, a look of exasperation on his face. "It had to happen sometime."  
  
  
  
Sam felt a surge of worry run through her at the calmness of his voice and the irritation on his expression. It seemed a bit too mild a reaction given the circumstances. "George thinks we're going to make the news soon," she added, attempting to pry a more healthy response out of him.  
  
  
  
"Hey, as long as we don't make America's Most Wanted, we should be alright," John shrugged, looking back at his map. "We'll have to make this a back road journey. Might add a day or so. And we should probably avoid hotels from now on."  
  
  
  
"John…"  
  
  
  
"What?" John snapped. "Sam, don't bother, alright? Things are what they are. There's no point in getting worked up about it."  
  
  
  
"How very zen of you," Sam said skeptically.  
  
  
  
"Well, what do you want me to do? Huh?" John looked away from his maps again to face her directly. "You want me to say how completely outrageous it is that I'm being charged for *murder*? You want me to remind you that I *told* you to stay out of this, and now the next time your daughter's gets to see your face it'll be on the front page?" Sam glanced away, blinking hard, as John added, "I figure it goes without saying."   
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
Sam stood outside the motel, perched on the back of the car and staring up at the sky. John's words kept running around in her mind as she wondered just what the hell she thought she was doing. It had been years since she'd had anything other than the typical suburban life. She should be at home, laughing with Chloe, enjoying the precious moments before her daughter entered adolescence and began to find her own way.  
  
  
  
Instead she was at a run down motel, putting herself in legal jeopardy for John Grant.   
  
  
  
Shivering, she found her eyes drawn to the other cars in the parking lot. She wondered about the people who owned them, whether they were in their motel rooms watching TV or reading or sleeping or making love. If they were moving, or if they were on their way to some choice vacation spot.   
  
  
  
Sam sighed, pushing her hair away from her face and turning her attention to the sky. She'd spent the past two years living her life in a bubble, rarely speaking to anyone besides her daughter. It only made sense that she'd feel disoriented, being so suddenly transported into a situation even more stressful than her FBI days.  
  
  
  
"Sam?"  
  
  
  
Sam jumped slightly, sliding off the car and turning to face John. "Hey," she said, licking her lips and trying to calm her heart rate. "You startled me."  
  
  
  
"Really? Hadn't noticed it," John answered sarcastically, but smiled back just the same. "You've been out here a while."  
  
  
  
"I needed to clear my head," she replied, as another chill went through her.  
  
  
  
"Why don't you go back in?" John suggested, eyeing her worriedly. "It's freezing, and I don't have a coat to chivalrously cover you with."  
  
  
  
Sam gave a small laugh, but shook her head. "Not just yet."  
  
  
  
"I'm sorry I about what I said."  
  
  
  
"No," Sam said quickly. "Don't be. You were right." She sighed, her breath frosting on the night air.   
  
  
  
"Sam." Sam turned her head and he took a step towards her so that they were mere inches apart. "I'm glad you're here."  
  
  
  
Sam looked down at the ground, feeling warmth spreading across her cheeks. She forced herself to look back up and meet his eyes. "You want to know something strange?" she asked rhetorically, laughing slightly to herself. "So am I."  
  
  
  
John reached out his hand and lightly touched a stray strand of her hair. "You should get some sleep. We need to leave in a few hours."   
  
  
  
Neither moved.  
  
  
  
A long moment of silence followed, and Sam forced herself to break it, clearing her throat. "Yeah. Yes… I guess I should. We should, I mean." She tried to make herself take a step forward, but all she could feel was the warmth of his breath on her cheek. She turned her face up to his, not sure what she was doing, or why.   
  
  
  
She figured it out a moment later, when his lips descended onto hers. 


	9. Chapter Eight

Quick Note: Very short chapter here, sorry 'bout that. But on the plus side I just ordered my Profiler DVDs, so that should be sufficient inspiration. I'm going to crawl very far out on a limb here, and say something I hope I won't regret later: I actually think this story'll be finished before the year ends. Yeah, I know. But I really, REALLY believe it. :) Hopefully I won't have to take that back later. And hope you like this little tiny mini-chapter. :)  
  
Chapter Eight  
  
Everything faded away from Sam's mind. The thoughts that had been troubling her a minute ago disappeared, and all she could feel was the warm body pressing against hers as their mouths connected. She felt like a teenager in summer as she rose to the tips of her toes to meet his inquiring tongue. The cold that surrounded them seemed to stop at the point where their lips met, as if it knew that winter weather was no match for the heat between them.  
  
  
  
A lifetime ago, John had gently warned her that in two seconds he was going to put his arms around her, and he was going to kiss her. There had been no warning this time. None had been needed.   
  
  
  
Moments later the icy air was once again invading her as he stopped the kiss. He made no move to step back, however, and there was still less than an inch of space between his mouth and hers. "I didn't mean to do that," John whispered, blue eyes locked with hers.  
  
  
  
"Didn't mean to?" Sam asked, a chill running up her spine even as tears inexplicably burned her eyes. "Or didn't want to?"  
  
  
  
John just stared back at her. "You know the answer to that."  
  
  
  
And she did.  
  
  
  
Sam gave a half laugh, and took the step backwards that needed so desperately to be taken. "What are we doing?" she asked, and looked up at him, begging him with her eyes and expression to just go along with it, shrug off this moment and let both of them pretend it had never happened. It was too much, and too soon, and too *immediate* to be anything but ignored.  
  
  
  
John graced her with a small half smile, one that could easily be interpreted as flippant and dismissive, if she chose to do so. "Going inside," he suggested, reaching out to take her shoulder and lead her away from the car. She followed obediently, keeping her eyes trained to the ground so she wouldn't have to look up and see his face. Of course, they were going inside a hotel room, which did cause her mind to continue its transgressions into places she didn't want it to go. But it was ignorable. His body pressed against hers, the heat of it… that wasn't ignorable. But that was done now.   
  
  
  
And hopefully would never, ever happen again.  
  
  
  
Half of her hoped that, anyway, the half that stepped inside the hotel room as John held the door open and made a beeline for the bathroom, needing for something to separate them. Even something as insubstantial as a piece of wood. She shut the door behind her, locked it, then leaned against it, staring at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. What the hell was she doing?   
  
  
  
Because the other half of her, the half she was trying so desperately to ignore, wanted nothing more than to step back, open the door between them, and kiss him again.   
  
  
  
That couldn't happen.  
  
  
  
It just couldn't.  
  
  
  
Shaking her head, she pushed herself back away from the door and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked tired, her eyes red rimmed and shadowed in black. Hardly the picture of beauty. Not that she cared. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. And she knew how this had happened, that moment. She was a psychologist, of course she knew. They were trapped together in close quarters, dealing with an extremely stressful situation. He was on the run for *murder* for crying out loud. Of *course* emotions were going to be running high. And the stress of the situation was manifesting itself, for him, in an ill-conceived attraction. One that would be quickly forgotten once they resolved the matter causing the stress.  
  
  
  
As she stared at herself in the mirror she knew that did nothing to explain *her* actions, but she dismissed those as yet another symptom of the bored mother she'd become over the past two years. There was no reason to look into it any further.  
  
  
  
No reason at all. 


	10. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine  
  
John found himself lying awake in bed, long after Sam had finally emerged from her bathroom hiding place and crept off to sleep. He kept thinking about a cabin in the woods, about stolen moments of intimacy performed in hopes of provoking a madman. He'd loved her then, although he hadn't realized it yet. No, that had come later, though the exact date of the revelation remained a mystery even to him.  
  
  
  
He was over it, though. He'd gotten over Samantha Waters the minute she'd walked out of his life without so much as a glance back over her shoulder. That's what he'd believed, anyway, until tonight.  
  
  
  
Until tonight, when the moonlight bleached her hair white, and the artificial lamps outside the small motel accentuated the shadows beneath her eyes, making her look both pale and fierce, fragile and defiant. Her head had turned up to his and the next thing he knew he was kissing her the way he'd kissed her so long ago and had always longed to kiss her again.  
  
  
  
What the hell had he been thinking?  
  
  
  
There were so many more important things to be thinking about besides jumping back on the emotional roller coaster that was loving Sam. He shouldn't be wasting what could very well be his last days as a free man worrying about the details of their time apart, why she hadn't cared enough to keep in touch, why she'd welcomed and than ran from him less than an hour ago. He shouldn't be thinking about how much he wanted her, how he'd never *really* stopped loving her. He couldn't help it, though.  
  
  
  
His fate had been sealed the moment Sam had opened her front door and let him in from the rain.  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
Sam woke up to the smell of bagels and coffee with the sunlight peeking through the blinds, making her squint and blink several times as she sat up in bed and tried to adjust to the morning.   
  
  
  
John, once again sitting at what she'd come to think of as his table, turned around at the sound of her movement and immediately threw a brown paper bag at her. It landed harmlessly on the bed, only two inches away from her hand. "Morning," he said, throwing her a quick, painfully casual smile before turning back to the maps before him. "There's coffee over here, but you have to get up for it."  
  
  
  
Blinking again, Sam yawned and forced herself out of the comforting warmth of the blankets, grabbing the cup of coffee John had pointed out and then immediately sitting back down on the bed, tiredly rubbing her eyes with one hand as she placed the coffee cup down on the nightstand with the other. "Where'd this come from?" she asked on another yawn, opening up the bag and pulling out a pre-buttered poppy seed bagel.  
  
  
  
"It was like a miracle, Sam," John said, awe clear in his voice. "I went down the street, and there was this place, right? They had at least a *hundred* of them for sale. Did we luck out or what?"  
  
  
  
Sam sighed irritably and took a very long sip of the coffee. "It's too early for sarcasm," she complained.  
  
  
  
John made a huffing noise. "It's *never* too early for sarcasm," he proclaimed seriously.   
  
  
  
"And you shouldn't be walking around, anyway," she added. "Or did you forget the 'on the run' part of all this?" she asked, with her own early-morning blend of sarcasm.  
  
  
  
He shrugged. "We won't get anything done by hiding out."  
  
  
  
Sam frowned, feeling suddenly uncomfortable for reasons she couldn't quite put her finger on at this early hour. "How long have you been up, anyway?" she asked to chase away the feeling, swallowing another sip of the now rather cold coffee.  
  
  
  
John shrugged again, looking down guiltily, and she knew immediately that he couldn't answer her question, because he hadn't gotten any sleep at all. "A while," he lied vaguely, and shifted in his chair so he was facing her more directly. "Let me know when you're verbal. There's some things we need to go over."  
  
  
  
Sam nodded but didn't answer, all her attention focused on the bagel and coffee he'd provided as she tried to reach a more 'verbal' stage. Her eyes still felt heavy and lidded, and she found herself deeply regretting the shower she'd taken last night. It made showering now unnecessary, though she knew it would do more than any cup of coffee in terms of waking her up.  
  
  
  
Finally, twenty minutes and a change of clothes later, she felt up to conversation. She walked over to the corner table and took the seat opposite John's, looking at him expectantly. "What is it?"  
  
  
  
He looked at her a long moment, then looked down and she followed his gaze, seeing the maps still spread out across the table. "We need to ditch the car," John said finally. "The cops know you're here, now. If they haven't traced you back to your friend who's car we're using, they will soon. And we're not in the papers today," he gestured to the third chair, where the day's newspaper was sitting, abandoned, "but that's bound to change. We've been lucky so far, but…" he trailed off and shook his head, then cleared his throat and went on. "Plus the whole Grayson thing yesterday was a little too weird for my tastes. I mean, it *could* just be a coincidence, sure, but why take a chance?"  
  
  
  
Sam wanted to argue with him, but his logic was sound and all she could do was nod. "So what should we do?" she asked, allowing him to take the lead. As he'd been so quick to point out before, he had more experience in these matters than she did.  
  
  
  
"Well, that's the thing," John answered, meeting her gaze and leaning back in his chair. "Our options are limited here. No matter what route we take, we have at least another two days before we hit Atlanta. We *might* be able to get away with a rental, but all I've got on me is my real I.D., and there's no one I know around here who can help us out with fake ones. Buses are way too enclosed, and trains aren't much better."  
  
  
  
Sam frowned, and looked for holes to punch in his growing paranoia. It didn't take her long to realize there weren't any. "So, what? We're stranded?" John looked at her solemnly, and she immediately realized what he was saying and shook her head. "Didn't we already go over this back in New York?" she protested.   
  
  
  
"There were more options then," John said simply. "Now? The feds and cops both know you're with me, so renting a car under your name isn't any better. And we can't do a damn thing from here to clear any of this up."  
  
  
  
"What if we get pulled over?" Sam replied, playing devil's advocate even though she had the horrible suspicion John's mind was already made up on this. "A patrolmen might not recognize either one of us, but if he runs the plates, or wants registration…"  
  
  
  
John shrugged. "We drive carefully."  
  
  
  
Sam sighed, bit her lip, and looked away. She knew, legally speaking, she was already in a great deal of trouble. Once the cops showed up on her door and told her he was wanted for murder, she'd lost any claim to ignorance. By being here, in this hotel room, she was an accessory. She was breaking the law, and once they'd crossed state lines, she was committing a felony in doing so. What John was suggesting was nothing, criminally speaking, in comparison. It seemed worse to her, though.   
  
  
  
"I don't know," she said finally, meeting his gaze again. "If we find out who's setting you up, who's committing these crimes, all of this will go away." She waved her hand around the hotel room, indicating their situation. "Bailey will have enough leverage to protect us. But stealing a car…" she trailed off and made a face, finding the whole conversation rather sordid.  
  
  
  
John smiled a little, and she had to fight the urge to throw something when she saw the slight mischievous glint in his eyes. "So we don't get caught," he said simply, then added, with a bit more seriousness, "And we'll have to avoid hotels. Too risky to have it sitting out in a parking lot all night."  
  
  
  
Sam found herself suddenly wishing she had more coffee. "You mean we'll have to *sleep* in it?" she asked.  
  
  
  
John's small smile grew to a genuine laugh. "Yeah, we'll have to sleep in it," he said.   
  
  
  
"John…" Sam started, then trailed off, finding she had no idea what to say to him and his total shift in mood. Yesterday he'd been edgy, irritated with her and the situation, and had snapped at her with very little provocation right before the… incident… in the parking lot. Today he seemed to be taking an odd pleasure in the lengths they were being forced to go to. She couldn't figure it out.   
  
  
  
Seeming to read her thoughts, John said, "Sam, I'm pretty much screwed right now. I *ran*. I might as well have signed a damned confession, instead. And you were right. Going to Atlanta and trying to solve this thing ourselves is the only way to fix it. We need a car to get there. And I know the one sitting outside right now isn't going to make it any further and not get us both busted. You want to go down as an accessory to murder? Or do you want to commit a misdemeanor in hopes of avoiding the felony?"  
  
  
  
Startled, Sam stared at him and wondered just how *long* he'd been reading her thoughts. Then she shrugged, and gave in to the inevitable. "What do we have to do?"  
  
~End Chapter Nine~  
  
End Note: See, I knew the DVDs would be inspirational. :) -- Since I'm suddenly feeling re-inspired about this story, and since my updates have a history of being sporadic at best, I've decided to do one of those update list things. So if you want to know via e-mail when this story's updated, please leave me a review with your e-mail address and I'll add you to it. Or you can just e-mail me privately at erana19@aol.com. Also, I owe a serious, serious debt of thanks to every single person who's left a review on this story. Thanks SO much. And now that writing in it doesn't feel like pulling teeth any more, I swear to do my best to finish it before the year, like I said before. At the very least I swear to no longer wait five to six months before putting up a chapter. Hope you liked this part, and I hope you keep liking the parts to come. :) 


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